


Every You and Every Me

by fatal_drum



Series: Charity Ficlets 2020 [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Anxiety, Background Georgie/Melanie - Freeform, Flirting, Fluff, Literature nerd Jonathan Sims, M/M, MeetCute, Needle Phobia, Nurse Martin Blackwood, Wedding, medical anxiety, patient Jonathan Sims, self-consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Two ways Jon and Martin meet in another world.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: Charity Ficlets 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804192
Comments: 25
Kudos: 140





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arguenot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arguenot/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to arguenot, who supported the Protest Aftercare Fund. Thank you for being so patient with me! Many thanks to Cuttooth for betaing these.

Jon hates hospitals. He hates the fluorescent lights, the harsh chemical scent of disinfectant that clings to his clothes afterwards. He hates the bland eggshell tiles and cream-colored walls. He hates the blare of the speakers constantly paging one doctor or another. 

But most of all, he hates needles. And his doctor has ordered what must be every test she can think of, and he’s fairly sure he’ll be drained of blood by the time they’re done. He’s half tempted to leave without the bloodwork, but he suspects Georgie will drag him back in by the collar if he goes home without a diagnosis. 

It’s with no small amount of trepidation that he surrenders himself to the custody of the laboratory, signing himself in and handing the sheaf of testing orders to a harried-looking nurse. He sits in the far corner, ignoring a pair of small children who have decided to chase each other in circles around the waiting room while their father idly flips through a faded magazine, heedless of the chaos his progeny are creating. Tapping his leg anxiously, he takes out his mobile and opens the news app, selecting an article on the Large Hadron Collider. He chews his lip as he scrolls through, doing his best to absorb the details of the Higgs boson while sneaking furtive glances at the door to the laboratory. Eventually he realizes he’s read the same paragraph four times without comprehending a word. Instead, he surrenders to watching the news on the telly in the corner.

Finally someone calls his name. He stands, putting his mobile away before following them into the back. 

His nurse is tall and broad-shouldered, with cat-eye glasses and a mop of ginger curls pulled into a messy tail. The nurse smiles as if they aren’t approaching the mouth of hell. 

“Hi. My name is Martin, my pronouns are he/him or they/them, and I’ll be your phlebotomist. What would you like me to call you?”

“Jon is fine,” he says stiffly. “And, er. He/him, please.” 

“Jon?” Martin confirms. “That’s a nice name. This way, thank you.”

_ It’s the most common name in the English language,  _ Jon wants to snap, but he's being unfairly irritable. He follows silently, sitting in the hard plastic chair with the unsettling arm-rest. 

“Do you have a preference?” Martin asks, eyeing Jon’s forearms. 

“My preference would be going home,” Jon blurts out. 

Martin laughs, and Jon feels his face heat.

“I mean, you can go home if you like,” Martin says seriously, “but I’m sure your doctor ordered these tests for a reason. I promise it will barely hurt at all.” 

“That’s what they all say.” Before one jab becomes two, then three or more, and they start complaining about his complexion making it hard to see, or his veins being recalcitrant.

“How about this, Jon,” Martin says. “If I do a bad job, I’ll personally bring you a coffee as a consolation prize.”

“I don’t like coffee.”

“Tea, then,” Martin corrects. “But I promise, I’m very good at what I do.”

Jon bites his lip. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the Martin Blackwood guarantee,” Martin says, flashing another smile. “Now roll up your sleeve, if you don’t mind.”

Jon rolls his shirt up above his elbow, and Martin dons a pair of gloves and wraps a tourniquet around his bicep. Jon’s pulse races as Martin swabs the inside of his forearm with alcohol.

“It’s perfectly fine to be nervous,” Martin says gently. 

“I’m not nervous,” Jon snaps. 

“Right,” Martin says. There’s a long silence as Martin palpates Jon’s forearm with careful fingers. “So tell me, what are you studying?”

“Literature,” Jon says, trying to remember to breathe. 

Martin picks up a needle attached to a clear plastic tube, frowning down at Jon’s arm as he does so. The expression makes the freckles shift on his brow. 

“Lovely. I enjoy poetry myself. How do you feel about Keats?”

“Drastically over-rated,” Jon says, feeling the weight of countless hours of unwanted readings. “Frankly his poems are derivative, and his language over-wrought.” 

“That seems rather unfair.”

“Is it, though? Honestly he gets most of his attention for dying young. If he’d lived long enough to die of a heart attack or something dull like that, I doubt we’d have heard of him.” 

“That’s hardly his fault,” Martin argues. 

“I can still blame him for my having to grade countless essays on ‘Ode to a Nightingale.’ ”

“Fair enough,” Martin chuckles, reaching for the tourniquet. 

“Aren’t you going to—?”

Jon looks down to see Martin applying a plaster to his arm. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Keep that on for an hour,” Martin instructs. “Otherwise you’ll bruise.”

“How did you  _ do  _ that?” Jon demands. 

“Trade secret,” Martin says with a wink. 

Without thinking, Jon says, “I’ll be needing that tea.”

Martin frowns, looking confused. “But you didn’t even—”

“My treat,” Jon says hastily. “Unless I’m being—oh, god, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine! I just—I have a policy about, er. Dating patients.”

“But I won’t be your patient after this,” Jon says. “I’m actually very healthy.”

Martin’s cheeks flush a very appealing rosy pink. “I—”

“Or...I could get tea by myself, downstairs, in an hour. And if you happened to be there...well, it would be a lovely coincidence.”

“Two hours,” Martin corrects. 

“In two hours, I will have a sudden craving for tea,” Jon promises. 

Martin smiles, and when Jon’s heart races, it has nothing to do with needles.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin’s never been to a wedding where they played Siouxsie and the Banshees, but given what he knows about the brides, it makes sense. Melanie is gorgeous in her white tuxedo, her hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches her silk pocket square. Georgie has a floor-length black lace dress that evokes cobwebs. Her dreadlocks are twined with blue silk ribbons to match Melanie’s hair. Her earrings are shaped like cartoon ghosts. 

The ceremony is beautiful. He and Melanie aren’t the closest, but he still cries a bit when they exchange vows. He’s not the only one. Melanie ends up dabbing her eyes with the pocket square while Georgie kisses her forehead and holds her close until they finish their vows. 

The awkwardness doesn’t set in until after the first dance. That’s the point when everyone’s supposed to start dancing, or mingling, or whatever else it is you’re supposed to do at weddings—this is only Martin’s second one, and the first was his great aunt Milena’s when he was ten. 

Something about being in a crowd of people always reminds Martin of how alone he is. How everyone seems to be gathered together, talking and laughing and drinking, while he sits alone at his little table. He doesn’t know anyone else besides Melanie, and he’s never been great at dealing with strangers. He briefly considers slipping out the back before anyone notices how awkward he is.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” 

Martin startles, nearly knocking his chair over as he turns to see a tall, thin man standing behind him.

“N-no, go ahead,” he stammers. 

“Thank you,” the man says, taking the seat across from Martin.

“I’m Martin,” Martin says, like the brilliant conversationalist he is.

“Jon.”

At first glance, Martin thought Jon must be in his fifties with his greying black hair, but his face is smooth and unlined. He thinks they might be the same age. His eyes are large and dark brown. Martin can’t stop looking at them. 

“Are you here for the bride or the bride?” Martin quips.

Jon frowns. “Sorry?”

Martin flushes. “Just a dumb joke—I meant, are you here for Georgie or Melanie?”

“Oh,” Jon says. “Georgie.”

“Melanie and I work together at the library.”

Jon smiles, and Martin’s heart skips a beat. “I used to want to be a librarian.”

“What did you do instead?”

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” Jon says dryly. At Martin’s snort, he confesses to being an academic. 

“That must be exciting,” Martin says. 

“Oh, yes. Arguing about poets who’ve been dead for two hundred years. Marking essays. Surviving faculty meetings.”

“We’re both exciting people,” Martin chuckles. 

“Incredibly,” Jon drawls, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. 

Someone clears their throat, and Martin nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns around to see Georgie, whose eyes are focused on Jon. 

“There you are, Jon!” she says, grinning. “I didn’t see you on the dance floor.”

“I don’t have a partner,” Jon says. 

Georgie turns to Martin. “Do you dance?”

“I, er—not really,” Martin says sheepishly. “Not in a very long time.”

She smiles. “Then Jon can teach you. It’ll be fun.”

Jon stands and offers him a hand, and Martin takes it, blushing to the roots of his hair. “I—I really—”

“Jon’s an excellent teacher,” Georgie says, drifting away to mingle with the other guests.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Jon says. 

“I mean, I don’t want to make you break a promise.”

“I could tell Georgie you were stricken by a sudden leg cramp.” 

“That’s awfully gallant of you,” Martin says, laughing despite himself. “I suppose I’m game to try, as long as you’re willing to forgive my two left feet.”

“Honestly all you’ll have to do is follow my lead.”

Martin realizes belatedly that the music is no longer Siouxsie and the Banshees but something slower and more intimate. The kind of music for dancing cheek to cheek. Jon places his hand on Martin’s waist, and places Martin’s hand on his shoulder. His other hand clasps Martin’s lightly. Rather the opposite of his half-remembered lessons from adolescence. 

“Like this,” Jon says, taking the first steps. It takes Martin a moment, but he manages to follow along, letting Jon lead him across the floor. He catches a glimpse of Georgie and Melanie out of the corner of his eye. Melanie has her head laid on Georgie’s shoulder. He fights down a stab of jealousy. They deserve to be happy. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Jon murmurs. “You’re actually not bad at this.”

“ ‘Not bad’ is certainly my goal in life,” Martin quips. 

“God, I’m sorry!” Jon says, looking bashful. “I meant—I mean, you said you hadn’t done it much, I’m sure you could become quite good with—”

“You’re fine,” Martin interrupts, smiling gently. “Really, I know I’m not some virtuoso dancer.”

Jon shakes his head. “I’ve seen  _ much _ worse. As in, landed-in-A-and-E worse.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Jon promises. He then proceeds to regale Martin with the tale of his worst dancing partner, an incredibly large man named Jared who’d insisted on leading, then tripped and fallen directly on Jon’s ankle. Jon has a flexible and expressive voice, dripping with just the right amount of irony, and by the end Martin is laughing against his shoulder.

“I’m glad I’m not your worst dancing partner,” Martin says. 

“You’re not even in my top five,” Jon assures him.

They make it through two more songs before Jon’s gaze catches on something, and he curses under his breath. “Shit, it’s Elias. I can’t let him corner me again.”

Martin follows Jon’s gaze to a sharply-dressed man talking to the brides. His hand is tucked into the arm of a broad-shouldered man with a greying beard. He’s wearing the smarmiest expression Martin has ever seen.

“Why not?” 

“If I let him see me, I’ll have to sit through another speech about why I should come work for him.” Jon shudders theatrically.

“We can’t have that,” Martin says seriously. “You know, I could use some air, couldn’t you?” 

“Excellent suggestion,” Jon says. He lets go of Martin’s waist, which is a loss, but he forgets to let go of his hand. Martin bites his lip as Jon leads him to the back door, trying not to make a big deal out of it. 

They manage to escape without anyone noticing. The autumn air has a crisp chill, but he’s fine with his suit jacket. Jon lets go of his hand as they lean against the wall. Martin’s hand feels cold afterward.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Jon says. “Now Georgie can’t accuse me of being antisocial.”

“You hardly seem antisocial.”

“Tell that to Georgie. She’s been trying to get me to start  _ dating  _ again.” Jon pulls a face.

“It sounds like she wants you to be happy,” Martin says.

“I suppose,” Jon concedes. "I don't know why she'd wish  _ me _ on someone, though."

"Have you seen the guys on dating apps?" Martin asks incredulously. "Someone could do a lot worse."

"Have you?" Jon asks.

"Have I what?"

"Seen the other men on dating sites."

"Oh! Er. Yes." Martin says, flushing. "That's how I know."

"So there's worse than 'emotionally constipated workaholic who won't stop yelling about Keats?' "

"I mean, yeah, but that's...oddly specific. Who called you that?"

"Melanie," Jon says with a crooked smirk. At Martin's laugh, he adds, "We didn't exactly get off on the right foot."

"I can see that. Hopefully you get along better now?"

"Marginally," Jon concedes. "She's...good for Georgie, though. I'm happy for them."

"Me, too," Martin says, glancing back at the reception hall. "You don't seem emotionally constipated."

"Oh, I definitely was." Jon says with a wry smile. "I suppose we should go back in."

"As long as you're not afraid of being accosted with job offers."

"I think I can keep them at bay."

Martin loses track of Jon after that, in between the food and the champagne and dancing with Georgie's great aunt Mildred, who tells him he seems like a nice young man and that she knows a lad in her knitting club who's single. He declines her offer, wondering how obvious it must be that he hasn't had a date in nearly a year. 

Eventually he makes it home. His life continues as normal, work and writing and nights alone watching telly with his cat Mr Sprinkles, when he gets a text from Melanie. It's just a string of numbers, followed by,  _ you're welcome. _

_ What's this? _ he texts back. 

_ Jon's number. You have terrible taste, but he's keen. _

_ What makes you think that? _ he asks, cheeks flushing hotly.

_ Georgie says he hasn't shut up about you all week. _

Martin claps a hand against his mouth, heart racing. He hasn't felt like this since he was in school.

After a great deal of internal debate, he adds the number to his contacts. 

_ Hi, Jon, it's Martin,  _ he types. _ From Georgie’s wedding? Just wanted to see if you’ve argued about any dead poets lately? _

Martin sends the message, and then immediately questions if he’s got the wrong number. What if he’s texted some stranger? He’s just about to double check the number when his phone chimes. 

_ Too many to count.  _

Martin bites his lip. 

_ Want to argue some more? _

This time the answer is immediate.  _ I'd love nothing more than that. _

Martin smiles at his screen and types his reply.


End file.
